Sherlock Spills the Beans
by wendymarlowe
Summary: Sherlock blurts out some private details about John's sexual habits, during a case, in front of Greg and Sally. John is furious that Sherlock would let the Yard assume he had first-hand knowledge of John's behavior in bed, but Sherlock doesn't see what the problem is - he's deduced everything already, so why hide it? Especially when he's got some suggestions of his own . . .
1. Chapter 1

Greg let them into the rather cluttered flat, not even bothering to give Sherlock the details of the crime. Although he really didn't need to - the young woman's body was sprawled out on her living room floor, the bruises around her neck already starting to show against her pale skin. John took a closer look at her face - something about her seemed vaguely familiar -

"Strangulation, clearly, even Anderson could get that right," Sherlock intoned. "John?"

John shook his head. "Sorry. She looks - I don't think I _know _her, necessarily, but I've seen her before."

Sherlock frowned. "Not helpful. I was soliciting your medical opinion."

He gave Sherlock a two-fingered salute and examined what he could without touching her. "You've already got the cause of death," he said after he made sure he wasn't missing anything obvious that Sherlock would harass him about later. "Strangled with a man's bare hands, looks like. Her state of dress would suggest she was either about to go out clubbing or just got back. Whoever the guy was, he left a hickey on the side of her neck but they didn't get as far as actual sex - not as far as I can tell, anyway. She wasn't redressed."

"Good. You got at least half." Sherlock pointed to her hair, her fingernails, her bare feet, and the tiny black purse set precariously on an end table. "She was just back from the club, somewhere with silver glitter, judging by the state of her hair. Her fingernails are freshly painted but have a dent on the right forefinger and thumb - she was in a hurry to go out and had to unzip her purse without letting them get quite dry first, which says she took the Tube, thus it's not a club within walking distance. Bare feet and shoes left by the door indicate she and her murderer were trying to avoid bothering a flatmate. Whom I assume was the one to find the body?"

Greg cleared his throat. "There was a flatmate, and yes, she was the one who found her this morning. She's in her room now with Donovan - last door on the right down the hallway."

"Right then, shall we?" Sherlock started for the bedroom, but John caught his sleeve.

"Don't you think someone else ought to talk to her first?"

Sherlock blinked. "Why?"

"Because she just found her flatmate _murdered on her living room floor_, maybe?" John sighed and forced a tight smile. "You're not exactly a people person, Sherlock."

"She's in there with Donovan," Sherlock pointed out. "I don't see how I can be any worse."

"You, go," Greg said, gesturing at John. "Sherlock, you listen, but one bloody peep out of you saying something that makes her upset, and I'm throwing you both out of my crime scene."

Sherlock wanted to argue - John could identify his peeved face from a hundred meters away now - but he held his tongue. John led the way down the short hallway and knocked on the door.

"Hey, I'm-"

"John?" The woman looked up, surprise writ clearly across her face.

And John suddenly realized where he had seen the victim before. "Anne - no, Angie, was it?"

Sally looked back and forth between the two of them. "You know each other?"

John's "We've met" and Angie's "Yes" and Sherlock's "They've had sex" all sounded at the same time. And then there was an awkward silence as they all stared at Sherlock.

"I know I'm right," he huffed.

John's gaze flicked from Sherlock to Angie and then to Donovan, who was blatantly gaping. "Bloody hell," she whispered.

"Sorry about him," John said automatically. "I understand you were-"

"Wait," Donovan interrupted. "You two were dating? And how did _Sherlock _know? He can barely keep track of your girlfriends as it is."

"We weren't dating, we-"

"It's pathetically obvious," Sherlock drawled, right over the top of John's objection. "I mean, look at her. Pretty enough to pull a bloke when she's desperate, but not gorgeous enough to get the flashiest man in the room. She brought John home, oh, four or five months ago, I'd say? He was the best shag of her life, she was mediocre at best, and she's still pissed at him for never calling her back."

"Sherlock," John ground out through clenched teeth.

Lestrade poked his head through the doorway. "Everything okay in here?"

John jerked his head sideways at Sherlock, hoping Lestrade would take the hint and drag him out before he could make things worse.

Angie glared at John. "No, I want to hear this," she said in Sherlock's direction. "What makes you think he was - what you said?"

Sherlock raised an eloquent eyebrow. "You took him home because he seemed nice enough, not too threatening, and he kissed you so thoroughly you couldn't see straight afterward. Your expectations weren't all that high, but then again most of the guys you bring home aren't all that concerned about their partners' pleasure. John turned out to be the exception. He's got a significantly larger than average cock and he's incredibly skilled with his tongue. He's creative and delightfully kinky in bed and he brought you to orgasm at least twice. He barely remembered your name, though, and only vaguely recognized your flatmate's face from when you brought him home, which means you didn't make all that much of an impression on him. It wasn't that much of a leap. When he really goes all-out, he-"

John could feel his cheeks getting warmer and warmer the longer Sherlock talked. Greg and Sally's stares didn't help. _"Sherlock," _he interrupted, with a bit more volume than he had intended.

"Right, now, that's enough," said Greg. "Take your little domestic outside - I'll be down to talk to you in a bit."

"But he-"

Sally was biting her lip and looked positively gleeful, despite the dead body at the other end of the hall. "Still going to deny that you and the freak are getting it on?"

"Damn it, _I'm not gay!_"

She snorted. "Obviously not - bi, I'd assume."

John focused his glare on Sherlock, who didn't look the least bit penitent. "Care to say something more, you wanker?" he asked. "Right now you're making it sound like you have first-hand knowledge of my sex life."

Sherlock blinked. "But I do," he said slowly.

"Ha! Oh, sorry," Sally said. "Sorry, Miss Evans - that was unprofessional of me. But you don't know how long I've been saying these two were . . . yeah, sorry. You had enough of a shock finding Julie already."

"She didn't find the body," Sherlock interjected. "It was the one-night-stand she brought home - he got up early and found her. This woman is feeling guilty now because she and her lover were unusually loud last night - even louder than she was with John, I'd guess - and she assumes she would have heard the murder if she hadn't been shagging a complete stranger at the time. Who wasn't completely clean, by the way, no matter what he said about his status, so you really should get tested."

Greg grabbed Sherlock by the arm and yanked him toward the door. "That's _enough_," he growled. "And it will be a cold day in hell before I let you actually talk to a living person on a crime scene again. John, you too."

John looked back at Angie and tried to look apologetic. "Sorry," he said quietly.

"No, it explains a lot," she shot back. "You two go have a wild and crazy shag, or whatever it is you do. I don't know why you're here, but I'd rather you leave."

John left.

He rescued Sherlock's arm from Greg's grip at the base of the stairs. "I think we'd best just head home," he said, flicking Greg a significant glance. "And I'm really sorry about-"

"Just go," Greg replied, scrubbing his hand through his hair. "We can talk later."

"We're really not-"

"Later."

Sherlock - two-thirds of the way to a full-on sulk - folded his arms and pouted. "You'll get video of the killer from the cameras at the nearest Tube station," he said. "And the flatmate's date for the evening, too, since I assume you'll want to talk to him."

_"Go."_

They went. John stalked ahead, not caring whether Sherlock caught up or took a bloody cab home. He needed a walk, _alone_, and fifteen blocks in the evening drizzle sounded just about right.


	2. Chapter 2

"What the bloody fucking actual fuck, Sherlock?" John demanded as soon as he got back to 221B. The walk had given him time to think, but his frustration had started coalescing into rage the closer he got to actually having to talk to his mad flatmate. "Why the hell would you deliberately make them think we're shagging?"

Sherlock frowned. "I never said that. It's not my fault if they misinterpret."

_"You just told them you had firsthand knowledge of my cock."_ John wanted to flop dramatically onto the sofa, just to accentuate his point, but that would have been taking a page too many from Sherlock's book. He settled for folding his arms and glaring.

"Okay, _that _part was extrapolation, but I have personally observed plenty of details which told me about the rest. The walls aren't that thick, you know, and you've had women over when I was in my room more than once. Some of them then yammer on their mobiles to their girlfriends while you're in the shower, dissecting your technique."

John nearly staggered at the sudden wave of dizziness he felt going through him. "You never - I mean, I always tried to time it for when you weren't-"

Sherlock waved his objection away with an elegant flick of his wrist. "That's why I never came out until after you were already asleep - I assumed you'd be embarrassed by me."

"Christ, Sherlock. It's not . . ." John took a deep breath. "I'm not embarrassed by you, but I am still furious about you discussing my sex life in front of the Yard."

"It was hardly the whole Yard - just Lestrade and Donovan."

"Which will turn into 'the whole Yard' as soon as they get back, you know it will."

Sherlock nodded, conceding the point. "Why does it matter, though?"

"Really?" John knew Sherlock could be astoundingly dense sometimes, but honestly . . . "They think we're having sex," he said slowly. "Nobody will believe we're not gay, not now."

"_You _may not be," Sherlock snapped, his expression shuttering. "But_ I_ am, as Lestrade very well knows. And he knows you're my usual type. So it's not really a poor deduction for him to make, all things considering."

Something about the world as John knew it cracked and flaked away. "Say that again."

"What, that I'm gay?"

"No, the part about-" John swallowed. "I'm your type?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You're my type."

"How is that, exactly?"

The detective frowned slightly as he sifted through the undoubtedly neat stacks of data in his mind. "Slightly older than I am, intelligent but not frighteningly so, assertive to the point of being aggressive when necessary. Naturally dominant when the occasion arises. Uncomplicated but intriguing. All qualities which are beneficial in both a friend and a sexual partner."

John licked his lips. "But I'm not gay."

"Yes, so you've said. At every possible opportunity, and sometimes at great length. I'm well aware."

"Christ. I-" John sighed. "Back when we first met, I said it was all fine. I meant that, Sherlock. I don't have a problem with you being gay, I just have a problem with people assuming _I'm_ gay. Makes it kinda hard to pick up women when they all assume I'm in a relationship with you already."

Sherlock stared, like the idea had never occurred to him before. It probably hadn't.

". . . It's not because you disapprove," he finally said. "You really mean that."

John nodded.

"You're not-" Sherlock swallowed and looked at the floor, a shockingly contrite expression on his face. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Do you - do you want me to talk to Lestrade, to explain?"

Sherlock apologizing was even stranger than Sherlock looking contrite. Or Sherlock admitting to knowing anything about sex. Part of John wanted to say yes, wanted to watch him have to apologize in public, but that was petty and unnecessary and John liked to think he was a better person than that. Even to Sherlock. Especially to Sherlock.

"You don't have to," John said after only a few moments of internal debate. "It's - I suppose I could have been more clear about why I was objecting. I really don't care, other than that it makes it hard for me. The everyone assuming part." He let out a long breath. "Are you out of the closet to everyone except me, then?"

Sherlock's shoulder twitched, an apathetic half-shrug. "That would assume there had been a closet to begin with."

_And now the hard question_. "So, um. If I'm your type. Does that mean you were hoping for . . . you know?"

Sherlock glanced up, his arresting eyes full of a depth of emotion John never even knew he possessed. And then swept off to his bedroom without a word.


	3. Chapter 3

221B was a minefield of awkward silences the next day. Sherlock mostly stayed in his room and sulked, which wasn't unusual, but his sulking was pointedly directed _at John_ and it was bloody annoying. John finally called up Greg and invited him out for a pint, just as an excuse to get out of the flat.

Greg was already waiting when John got to the pub, two beers set expectantly on the table. John slid into his seat, grabbed the second, and took a long drink before even trying to talk.

"So Sherlock and I aren't shagging," he said without further preamble.

Greg blinked. "Okay."

"But he wants to, I think."

"And?"

"And I'm not gay, but apparently he is, and I just found out _today _that everyone in bloody London knew this except me."

"Ah." Greg stared into his pint for a long moment. "And you're mad about it?"

"Not mad that he's gay, but I am mad he assumed I'd be the kind of homophobe who would react badly. Tell me honestly: do I come across as that kind of bloke?"

Greg tilted his head to one side and studied him. "No," he finally said. "You really don't, and you didn't even when I first met you. One of your most remarkable traits is how you manage to stay so bloody _reasonable _all the time, even in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. He'd drive anyone else around the twist."

John slumped in his seat. "So what the bloody hell is his problem?"

Greg's eyes flipped downward, but he stayed uncharacteristically silent. John waited until it was obvious he didn't intend to answer.

"Greg?"

He finally looked up. "He's got - there's a reason, okay?"

John blew out a long breath and some of the tension left him. "Yeah, I figured," he mumbled. "He said - he said I was his type and you bloody well knew it and that's why you and the rest of the Yard keep assuming we're together."

Greg nodded and took another drink. "Yeah, I - I can see that. Didn't think of it in those terms, but yeah."

"So explain! What happens now?"

Greg hesitated, then dug his phone out of his pocket and started scrolling. He finally pulled up a picture and handed the phone to John. "That's Sherlock twelve years ago, when I first met him."

John glanced at the picture - and then couldn't tear his eyes away. Sherlock was _gorgeous_. His face was a bit softer, still with those high cheekbones and dark curls, but tempered by a bit more shape around the jaw and a healthier glow to his skin. It was the face of a man who would undoubtedly draw attention wherever he went, whether he wanted it or not. John let the phone drop and stared at Greg.

"Yeah, you see what I mean. You can't tell in that picture, but he carried himself differently, too - he was still bloody tall, but not quite so . . . austere, I guess. More approachable. And he pretty much had to fight admirers of both sexes off with a stick."

"I can imagine."

"He didn't want any of the women, though. I don't think he ever 'came out,' per se, but he didn't have to - you could tell from a mile away that he played for the other team. It was in his mannerisms, the way he dressed, the way he talked."

John frowned. "He doesn't strike me like that at all."

"Yeah, not now. But then, for sure."

"So what happened?"

Greg stuck the phone back in his pocket and took a slow drink from his glass. "Promise me this won't get spread around."

John shrugged. "I - okay, sure."

"Right. So I wasn't a DI yet, at the time, was just working my way up. And here this kid - Sherlock - walks into the Yard, claiming he's solved a murder."

"Like always."

"Again, he does that _now_, but then he was some gay punk from uni and nobody would take him seriously. He latched on to me, for some reason, I had no idea why. But he waited outside of work for me for a week straight, trying to catch me on my way home and convince me to let him see the case file."

"And did you?"

Greg snorted. "_Hell _no - that's a good way to get sacked, for sure. I did get him to tell me his theory, though, and no big surprise, he was right. It wasn't like we had missed something, it was more that Sherlock just saw things we didn't. I got a promotion, he got a nice little pat on the head from the current DI, and I assumed that would be that. Except he stuck around."

"Wanting to help with more cases?"

"Um, wanting to wait for _me_." Greg reddened a bit. "You know how he deduces things you'd rather not have him say? Well he deduced that I wasn't exclusively interested in women, actually, and he wanted a shot."

John gaped. "I never - I never knew. So you're . . ."

"Married," Greg said flatly. "Just two years at that point. She was cheating on my already, apparently, but I didn't know that at the time. I just knew that I had this stunningly gorgeous guy half my age angling for me, and I had made the decision to stick with one woman - one person - for life. I wasn't about to take up with Sherlock on the side." He closed his eyes. "God, I wanted to, though."

John took a moment to assimilate this. "Do you wish you had?" he finally asked.

"No." Greg shook his head emphatically. "Bloody gorgeous as he was, he was also messed up pretty badly. I'm sure you've heard about the drugs. He wasn't - he got worse after I turned him down, went from hounding me and flirting with me one day to just disappearing. I assumed he'd lost interest, but a month or so later I came across him as part of a drugs bust and he was . . . well, he was in bad shape."

"Bad shape how?"

"Bad boyfriend, I guess I should say." Greg snorted. "Some guy a decade older than him. Seemed quiet enough, but ended up being one of the larger cocaine distributors in London."

John could fit the pieces together easily enough. "So Sherlock was trading sex for drugs."

"I think it was more relationship-ish - is that a word? - than that, but yeah." Greg shot John a lopsided smile. "Sherlock got what he wanted - a boyfriend and access to cocaine - and it damn near killed him. His brother hauled him off to god-knows-where and got him clean, but when he came back he was a different Sherlock. Much more like the man you're living with now - he'd always been bloody brilliant, but after that whole episode, he was . . . more reserved, somehow, I guess."

"Yeah, I have a hard time picturing him _less _reserved," John said instantly.

That got a reluctant laugh out of Greg. "You'd be surprised. I'm sure you've seen him flirting to get something he wants? Now picture that manic focus directed at you, all the time. No filter." He took another drink and grinned. "God, it was fantastic."

"Christ." And the worst thing was, John _could _picture it. That little tingle when Sherlock was truly _there_, paying attention to just him. Especially when he said something that managed to surprise him a bit, so Sherlock was momentarily impressed with his plebeian brain and was all smiles and approval and energy. It was heady enough from a friend - how much more devastating would it be if Sherlock were _flirting _at the same time?

"Yeah. So." Greg chuckled into his pint. "You see why we all thought . . . what we thought about you two."

"Yeah, I do." John realized he didn't mind as much as he had the day before.

"Especially since he hasn't really done that - flirting - with _anyone _for twelve years. You're the one exception. It wasn't a big deduction on our part."

Something in John's brain screeched to a halt. "Wait - you mean Sherlock went from flaming gay flirt to _absolutely nothing_ over the course of a month, and has stayed that way for more than a decade?"

Greg raised a silent eyebrow.

_Shit_. "And I never noticed."

"I . . . think he doesn't want to risk being shot down again, honestly," Greg said with a grimace. "Look, if you're not interested, that's _fine_. You're not obligated to do anything just because your flatmate is a bloody failure when it comes to actual relationships. Even Sherlock has to realize that. Tell him thanks but no, decide what you want to do next, and go from there."

_But what if I have no idea what I want to do? _John nodded and drained the rest of his pint, but his mind wasn't on the conversation anymore. He had to get back to 221B and talk to Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was barricaded in his room when John got back to the flat. It was tempting to just go on upstairs, to put off the inevitable, but John had never been a coward before and didn't intend to start now. He rapped smartly on the door.

"Go away."

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you."

There were sounds of something being moved around inside the room, some muffled bumps. "You're just back from talking to Lestrade who undoubtedly told you all about my past romantic history," Sherlock said distinctly, despite the barrier of the door between them. "You feel guilty enough to try to 'let me down gently.' Don't bother - just delete the whole incident."

"No. Get out here, you berk." John thumped on the door again for good measure. "We do need to talk, and I really don't want to have to stand out here until you starve - I know how long you can go without eating."

The door jerked open, revealing Sherlock in his dressing gown and with his hair even more of a mess than usual. "Fine, talk."

"Tea first." John turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen, relieved to hear that Sherlock was following him. Once the kettle was boiling and the tea was steeping, he turned and finally looked his flatmate in the eye.

"Okay, how long has this been going on?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Define 'this.'"

"You. Wanting us to be . . . more than friends."

"That presumes I anticipated friendship, which I didn't." Sherlock eyed him, face inscrutable. "I've never had friends, and I didn't expect taking a flatmate to change that situation."

_Stupid literal bastard._ "Fine, then - romantic interest."

"Hmmm." Sherlock leaned back against the counter. "Since you shot the cabbie, I'd say. I don't often find myself in the role of the damsel in distress, and you surprised me. In a good way. It took a few weeks for me to acknowledge the emotion, and of course I knew you wouldn't be interested so I didn't act on it."

"I didn't say that."

Sherlock froze.

"I mean, it's unusually empathetic of you to not try to follow through right away, and probably for the best. I don't know how I would have reacted, and it's very possible I might have moved out. I've never been attracted to men, not like that."

"There's a 'but' hidden under all that?"

John's inner twelve-year-old resisted the urge to pointedly slide his gaze down to Sherlock's bum at the unintentional double entendre. "Yeah. But. I find myself more interested than offended. Which probably has more to say about you than it does about me."

The timer beeped, interrupting the awkward silence which followed. John mechanically finished making the tea, adding the correct amount of milk to his own and sugar to Sherlock's, then removed enough of the lab apparatus from the kitchen table so they could sit down and actually see each other.

"So." John tried to keep his voice neutral. "What would you want? For us?"

"I . . . don't know?" Sherlock gave a tiny shrug and glanced up at John through his lashes. It wasn't at all a practiced look, although it very well might have been, coming from a woman. On Sherlock, it just looked sheepish and rather adorable.

"Never thought I'd heard you say that." John grinned and took a sip of his still-too-hot tea. "I'm serious, though. Don't try to deduce what you _think _I want to hear - I want the truth."

"Mmmm. A . . . friendship, like it appears we have now."

John nodded.

"A . . . physical relationship, of some sort. Whatever you're comfortable with."

John nodded again. "Would you want this to be all official, with dating and anniversaries and the like?"

Sherlock bit his lip, looking delightfully out of his depth. "I've never done that before, but . . . if you want? I don't see the point in commemorating sentiment like that, but I would be amenable if it's important to you."

"Don't worry about what I want. I'm trying to sound out what it is you're asking, and then I can figure out how to answer."

Sherlock grumbled into his cup. "Your answer is yes, John. Just tell me what my question is supposed to be."

_Typical Sherlock_. John couldn't entirely cover up his snort of laughter, which earned him a glare.

"Fine. God help me, I'm willing to give this a try. With some conditions."

Sherlock's expression went from sardonic to hopeful and then back to resigned. "Let me guess," he said. "No sex, no public displays of affection, and I have to clean out the fridge."

That did earn a laugh. "The fridge isn't conditional on our relationship - I'd be nagging you about that anyway. Although it would be nice."

"But you don't want to do anything in public until you've determined whether you can have sexual feelings for another man, for fear of being labeled 'gay' and having that overshadow your future attempts to impress women."

". . . I wouldn't have put it exactly that way, but yeah, more or less." John swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Not in front of the Yard yet, anyway. But, to be honest - Greg showed me a picture of you from when you two first met. And I'm now very, very sure I'm capable of being attracted to a man, as long as that man is you. Was thinking about it the whole way home, actually."

Sherlock's eyes brightened, and he jumped up from his chair and grabbed John's hand. "Excellent - let's go have sex."


	5. Chapter 5

John had to dig in his heels surprisingly hard to halt Sherlock's inexorable tug toward the bedroom. "Hang on a minute."

"Why?" Sherlock released John's hand but still hovered, radiating energy.

"Because I don't know what I'm up for, yet, and the fastest way to ruin this is to go too fast and have to stop."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Speaking from experience?"

"Not from this side of the equation, but yes."

"Fine." Sherlock flopped back into his chair with a petulant sigh. "Does this involve more _talking_? Because surely the fact that I'm consenting to talk about _feelings _in the first place is all the sign you need that I'm serious."

"It's not that, I just-"

"What?"

"You don't have a vagina, Sherlock," John snapped. "I'm kind of at a loss here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, I don't have a vagina. I do have nipples. And a mouth, complete with lips and tongue and teeth. I have an arse, which I've been told is at least passably attractive. I have feet and arms and legs and thighs and earlobes and a navel and all those other things you're used to your partners having. The fact that I have a penis instead of a vagina really shouldn't throw you off that much - it's only around one percent of my surface area, anyway."

_Christ_. "It's not about surface area!"

"Then what is it about?" Sherlock retorted. He leapt up from his seat and came to stand chest-to-chest with John. "Is it about this?" He ducked his head and pressed his lips to the corner of John's mouth in a swift kiss, over almost before it began. "Or touch, is that what's bothering you?" His long fingers wrapped around John's wrist and brought their mingled hands up to rest on his own shoulder. The fabric of his dressing gown was warm and silky smooth under John's palm. "Or how about taste? I assure you-"

John cut him off with the simple expedient of kissing upwards and pulling on the nape of Sherlock's neck at the same time. The combination threw Sherlock off balance, pulling him forward and down into the kiss. He made a shocked noise and stilled instantly.

Luckily, kissing was something John had a lot of practice with. It was one of his better skills, honestly, and other than the fact that he was kissing _up _instead of down, it was comfortable territory. Sherlock's lips were warm and soft and when he opened his mouth - to argue or to deepen the kiss, John wasn't sure which, and he didn't give him time to choose - he tasted like tea and sugar. He moaned, deep and low in his throat, and the vibrations went straight to John's cock. S_o much for being worried that kissing a man wouldn't be a turn-on,_ John thought fuzzily.

Somehow - John wasn't entirely sure which of them instigated it - their bodies ended up measured together from kiss to thighs. He could feel Sherlock's erection pressing into his stomach, warm and insistent. It wasn't as alarming as he expected it to be - on the contrary, his own erection seemed to be eager to get free of his pants, preferably as soon as possible.

John pulled back from the kiss, finishing with an almost-chaste peck on Sherlock's cheek. "Right then," he said aloud, because something needed to be said. Sherlock looked dazed and needy, and fuck if that wasn't the best expression John had ever seen on his face. _So far_ . . .

This time it was John leading the way to the bedroom. Sherlock's, because it was closer and didn't involve stairs and if John was going to do this, he was just as happy to leave the mess on Sherlock's sheets instead of his own. Sherlock trailed a step and a half behind.

"I'm still not promising I'll be up for . . . everything," John said by way of explanation, "but I find you make a very convincing argument."

"One I'd be happy to expound on, at length, if the situation arises," Sherlock said a good half-octave lower than normal. "Rather hoping it does, in fact."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock met John's eyes. "I know," he said quietly in his normal tone of voice. "Not all gay couples even _do _anal sex, you know - not everyone likes it. I'm not expecting anything in particular from you."

And of course that was exactly what John was hesitant about, now that he actually thought about it. "I hate it when you deduce me like that."

"No you don't."

"Okay, no I don't." John tried to suppress his grin. "Want to deduce what I'd like to do next?"

"Mmmm." Sherlock's gaze drifted slowly down John's body, then back up. "I hope it involves divesting you of that jumper. And letting me get my hands and my mouth on you."

_"Fuck." _John blinked away the mental image Sherlock's words had invoked. "I - yeah, that sounds good."

"Excellent." Sherlock shrugged off the dressing gown, leaving himself in just a soft gray t-shirt and a pair of pinstriped pajama trousers. John didn't get much of a chance to ogle him, though, because Sherlock immediately grabbed the hem of John's jumper and tugged it sharply upward. John wasn't expecting it, and consequently got his elbows and shoulders and head all wrapped up and trapped in the thick fabric. He tried to move his arms, to get leverage and pull the bloody thing off, but suddenly there was a warm, wet suction against the soft skin of his belly, followed by a cool sensation which made him jerk and tangle his limbs even more.

Sherlock blew against the damp spot on John's skin again, then tugged the tails of John's button-down even higher and pressed a second kiss to his sternum. "Leave it there," he said, his voice nearly gravel. "Don't watch me, just feel."

John drew in a shaky breath. "What are you-"

"Just feel," Sherlock reiterated. And swirled his tongue around John's navel, finishing with a firm suck which literally caused John's knees to buckle. Sherlock caught him easily and shifted them both so John was splayed out flat on his back on the mattress.

"Much better," Sherlock purred, and darted his tongue into John's navel again with a firm jab. "I'm going to unzip your trousers now, and see where else I can do that."

"Nnnngh." John struggled half-heartedly against the prison of his jumper. He wasn't really trapped, and they both knew it, but Sherlock was doing something absolutely _unholy _with his tongue at the moment, trailing it down the crease between John's abdomen and his pelvic bone, and _Christ fuck bloody hell_ if he kept going in that direction, this would be over embarrassingly quickly. Sherlock's fingers quickly freed the button and the zipper on John's trousers, and John had to bite back a whine.

"The cloth is muffling you and Mrs. Hudson is out anyway," Sherlock noted helpfully with his mouth only inches from John's cock. "Don't restrain yourself on my account."

"I don't feel - _oh God _- particularly restrained right now," John panted.

"Other than the jumper?"

"Shut up and suck me already."

Sherlock chuckled, but he obediently closed his mouth over John's cock through the fabric of his pants and John really did groan then. Fuck, he could actually _feel _Sherlock's grin. Sherlock nuzzled a bit, little advances and retreats, and then there was cool air against John's skin and Sherlock's mouth was oh so hot against him where he had worked John's erection free through the slit in his pants. At first it was random patches, Sherlock mouthing him with lips and tongue and then drawing away to regroup, but then that slick warmth covered the head of John's cock and kept going down the shaft and John nearly came right there.

"Oh God, Sherlock, please-"

But Sherlock pulled away, so abruptly John let out a choked sob. There was a quiet rustling, then the warmth of his mouth was replaced by an even hotter slide of skin against skin. It took a moment for John to identify the sensation - Sherlock had shed his trousers and was sliding his cock against John's in slow, controlled glides. His saliva slicked them both up enough for there to be just the right amount of friction, barely any drag but enough that John could feel every bump, every vein of Sherlock's cock as it slid over his own.

"I was right, you know," Sherlock said. "You are significantly larger than average, and you're delightfully responsive. I can see why your dates spoke so highly of you afterward."

"Shut up and keep moving," John groaned.

Sherlock shut up, although John could _hear _his smug expression even through the thick layers of the jumper. There was a wet sound, then a tightness as Sherlock's hand curled around them both and provided an even better source of heat and snug pressure. Sherlock groaned aloud and the sound traveled straight down John's spine and into his balls where it curled deliciously tight and low, threatening to spring loose at any moment.

"Fuck, I'm going to - think I'm going to-"

Sherlock's free hand insinuated itself higher under John's button-down, brushing upward until it found the tight bump of his nipple. Sherlock trailed his fingertips over it, then grasped and squeezed. _Hard_. At the same time his other hand tightened around their beautifully slick cocks and his hips ground down, dragging his own length against John's.

John came with an actual yell, which wasn't at all muffled by the jumper. Sherlock's hips stuttered, then he groaned too and flopped down on the other side of the mattress, one arm flung out to rest on John's chest.

When John's heart finally slowed back to its normal rhythm, he sat up enough to wrestle the jumper off the rest of the way and finally _look _at his flatmate. Sherlock had his eyes closed, but his hair was sticking up in strange places and his gray t-shirt was rucked up to the base of his ribcage on one side, exposing a pale expanse of skin. He was naked from the waist down, too, and John noted that the pale skin extended everywhere one might expect. Sherlock's cock was flaccid and quiescent against the darker thatch of hair at his groin, and John found himself wishing he had gotten to actually see it while it was still erect.

"There's still time," Sherlock said without opening his eyes.

"Pardon?"

"To see each other naked. Plenty of time." Sherlock cracked one eye open. "Unless you were planning on this as just a one-time thing? A pity fuck?"

"Bloody - _no_, Sherlock," John said firmly. "I wouldn't do that to you."

Sherlock swallowed and gave a minute nod. "I - okay."

"My refractory period isn't what it used to be, though," John continued, "so it's not going to be tonight. As much as yes, I do want to see you when you come."

"It's not particularly feminine," Sherlock said softly, looking away. "I know you don't - you'd prefer-"

"Is that what the jumper was about?" John rolled over to his front and levered himself up enough to force Sherlock to look up at him. "I wasn't pretending you were a woman. I'm not doing this under the pretense of imagining you to be anyone other than who you are. I want _you_, you berk, and I'm astounded that that giant brain of yours didn't figure that out already."

Sherlock blinked. "But you're not gay."

John twisted to look pointedly at the wet spot their combined orgasms had made on Sherlock's white sheets. "I don't know - that looked awfully gay to me. And I think I'm pretty okay with it."

"You're not - no second thoughts?"

"Oh, sure, plenty." John grinned, then leaned forward to plant a tiny kiss on the tip of Sherlock's nose. "Most of them revolve around things we neglected to try. I'm finding myself with an undeniably gay desire to see how your cock tastes, for instance. I suspect I might rather like it."

Sherlock sucked in a large gulp of air, and his erection gave a noticeable twitch. "Not tonight, though, you said?"

"Not for me." John licked his lips. "Never said anything about you."


End file.
